Vigilante Justice
by nachalainne
Summary: DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan love practical jokes - especially when they get to pull them on their co-workers.


"Shhh. Shut up, Sally. Here he comes."

Donovan bit down on her lip and quickly covered her mouth with her hand as Dimmock approached. Greg would slaughter her if her expression gave away what he'd been plotting all morning - and frankly, she was rather fond of living. She was also fond of harassing her co-workers - and oddly enough, so was Greg.

And only naturally, they casually ignored Anderson's suggestion that they might both be in need of therapy.

Dimmock glanced across the office at them as he walked to his desk - and immediately stopped short. As if the pure, unhindered wickedness in Donovan's eyes wasn't telling enough, she and Lestrade were camped out at the water cooler - in perfect view of his desk.

"Subtle," he called out.

Greg gave his best bewildered expression - and a shockingly good one at that. "Problem, Dimmock?"

The younger DI paused next to his chair, eyes scanning the desk's surface, his computer, the ceiling - anything - for signs of a terrible practical joke. "Yeah. What'd you bloody do?"

Sally seemed affronted. "What are you on about? We're just talking about a case." She flapped a file in evidence.

"Like I'd ever believe that," Dimmock retorted, running his hands along the drawers, checking for trip wires. There was no end to Donovan and Lestrade's depravity when it came to pranks. If it worked, if it would end in humiliation, if by the end of the day someone had made an arse of themselves - it was worth trying.

They claimed it was vigilante justice - just desserts dished out to those who'd earned it. Ironic, given their employment as law enforcement officers - but very few people (i.e. DI Iain Dimmock) denied that detectives who routinely slept at their desks while others worked ought to be ranked highest on the list of the Yard's Most Deserving Victims. Obviously, Iain wasn't their only target. More often than not they turned on each other. All it took was one transgression - one excuse - to bring their entire division to a halt while they carried out an intra-office war.

Three things were sacred to the Met police: the coffee, the tea, and the pastries. Over-zealous caffeination by one of the Yard's more caustic detective sergeants, or dictatorial consumption of the morning muffins by a senior DI resulted in immediate action. Everyone knew why Lestrade never accepted baked goods from Donovan - a toothpaste-filled cream puff was a scarring experience. But, as she'd noted while he was retching into his waste basket, he probably shouldn't have tried to swallow it whole. Similarly, Sally had recently learned that a bitter mix of cayenne and cardamom in lieu of sugar for her morning coffee was an excellent remedy for a caffeine addiction.

Both incidents were were put down as extreme, but reasonable retribution for distressingly serious crimes.

But unlike the other office miscreants, Dimmock was a repeat offender. He enjoyed his naps, and no manner of practical joke could convince him to put an end to it. Instead, he'd gotten better at unearthing their tricks and traps - leaving them no alternative but to come up with increasingly more creative methods of punishment. Unfortunately for them, his desk was almost barren, which they suspected was intentional. The truth was, he didn't need ornamentation infecting the space with overplayed happiness; he enjoyed simplicity. The only two things he needed were a chair, and a way to put his feet up.

And as Greg and Sally went their separate ways, he wondered if perhaps he'd become paranoid. Their shallow innocence at the start seemed too dubious, but what if that was the trick? He honestly didn't mind the jokes, but if he was suspecting things where there were none - he'd clearly lost his mind.

Scowling, he sat down at his desk. Nothing stood out at him. Nothing had been moved, or looked tampered with, or seemed strange. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, but surely he knew his own desk well enough to tell if even the slightest detail was awry?

The clock on the wall ticked on, admonishing him.

He gave up. If Sally and Greg had a trick up their sleeves, he wasn't going to find it. It might have been in the desk drawers, it might have been in the ceiling - hell, it might not have existed at all, but he was wasting valuable time fruitlessly searching. With a sharp, seething glance across the office at his nefarious co-workers, he put his arms behind his head and leaned back. It was nap time.

But he kept leaning as the back of his chair gave out behind him. And as it gradually tipped - as he flailed and clawed helplessly at his desk, fingers finding no traction along the smooth, wooden surface - he knew it was too far gone to stop. He yelped and flipped, head over heels, in a tangle of limbs and chair and dissembled metal bits that went skittering across the office floor.

His co-workers stared.

Iain glared at the ceiling, hardly breathing as his face began to burn from the embarrassment. New Scotland Yard had never been so silent.

And then it started. Someone, somewhere in the vicinity of the secretaries' desks began to chuckle. Within seconds, the entire office was in an uproar - howling and applauding his 'graceful' display. How ironic that he should fall victim to his favourite posture! That DI Dimmock - always good for a laugh!

'So ironic,' he thought to himself, clawing his way up from the floor. He pushed the chair back and slowly righted himself - but not before glancing across the floor at Lestrade.

"You alright?" The senior DI asked, leaning out of his office and looking for all the world like he was concerned.

Iain rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet, not believing the charade for a second. Greg was a great many things - a great many good things - but an actor was not one of them. "Yeah. Fine, thanks," he muttered with a hint of sarcasm, staring down at the ruins of his desk chair.

"Good..." Greg nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. "Well, chin up. Back to work everybody."

Iain looked up as their co-workers dispersed, shooting Greg a knowing glare. The older man met his eyes briefly - and winked. Iain's mouth tightened. The older DI turned back into his office - cheerfully whistling a jaunty tune and twirling a small wrench between his fingers as he went.


End file.
